Jose in the Manger
by Darklady
Summary: An angel, a wise man, and a the rest of the Winchester crew walk into a Christmas story. Safe and fluffy as a new lamb. Road fic.


**Jose' in the Manger**

By Darklady

A Christmas Trifle.

_I suppose it is possible that I will receive my very own angel under the tree Christmas morning, but even if I do I suspect that Castiel, Dean, Sam, Bobby, and all the rest of the Supernatural property will still belong to Kripke and his sundry production partners. That is sad. It really is. Especially when I've been such a very good girl this year. (NOT!)_

_I apologize in advance for taking one more rerun though what has to be the most overused plot bunny in the history of holiday fics. What can I say? Christmas is Christmas, and when you start with the supernatural cast? Well, what is the only thing the story still needs? _

* * *

A brown bundle detached itself from the rear of the Chevy Chevette. This close Dean Winchester could make out the worried features of the young driver, his black hair slick against his forehead as snow melted down his back turned LA Raiders cap.

"Police?" he asked.

"Nope." Dean looked over his shoulder, checking that his brother Sam and Bobby Singer had fought their way though the heavy drift. "One lawyer – one…" Dean paused. He didn't think 'demon killer' would be a particularly comforting profession. "Bobby's a language expert."

He gave brief thanks that Castiel had stayed with the car. God alone knows what he could explain Cas as. And no, that wasn't blasphemy, it was precision. No one below the Father – archangels included – would want to explain Castiel to some random mundane.

"We spotted your car lights." Make that fading car lights. The Chevy was nose down in the drainage ditch, and in the minute they had stood here the rear blinkers had faded from red to a feeble pink.

"Looks like you have trouble?" Sam used his lawyers trick of making it a question, although it wasn't. Car in a ditch in a blizzard was anyone's definition of trouble. Add that it was eleven o'clock on Christmas Eve in the middle of nowhere with a north wind blowing ice down straight from the Arctic. How much worse could this guys luck get?

At least the monster the Dean and company had come out to track was dead now. The guy probably wouldn't get eaten before he could freeze to death. That was a check in the positive column, right?

"Mi esposa." The man waved a shivering hand at the car behind him. "Embarazada"

Dean blinked at that. "She's embarrassed?"

Bobby Singer rolled his eyes. "She's pregnant, chucklehead."

"Very pregnant." Castiel had popped up from where Dean had pulled over the Impala, and was leaning though the now-open car window.

OK. So there was a way for the guys luck to suck even worse than the usual Winchester curse.

"Don't look at me!" Dean shot up his hands. "I just drive the car."

* * *

"I'm not sure we'll make it though." Dean squinted down the road – or rather down the flat white strip where the freeway had been.

In the fifteen minutes it had taken the four of them to dig out the Winchester supply of emergency blankets and transfer the very **very** pregnant Senora Mendoza to the rear bench of the Impala the snow had proceeded from storm to blizzard and was approaching whiteout. If it got any worse Dean knew he would have to give up any hope of moving the Impala out of the drifts building up around the tires. He might even need to move it deeper into the snow, further off the highway and the risk of being rear-ended by snow blinded traffic. They could cover the car with the aluminum survival sheets and pile up snow walls to build an igloo.

"Send up a flare." Bobby suggested from the front seat. He was running the heater while they could, relying on Sam to clear the exhaust pipe and guard against carbon monoxide. "Try to get the highway patrol."

That made sense. Cops were the only people who might be better equipped than the Winchester crew.

"Good luck with that." Sam tossed the flare gun from the trunk supply. "Even if they have four-wheel drive, I don't think they will get though this."

Dean leaned back, aiming high. His body jerked under the recoil, feet slipping and newly sending him butt-down in the snow. Didn't matter. His aim was as reliable as ever.

The snow went blue-white as the burning globe arched up, then seemed to hang suspended like a star in the storm-black sky. It lit the freeway, turning the center reflectors into yellow candles until the dots shrunk into fireflies. Tall pines cut off the horizon, snow-heavy branches flaring like diamonds in the fleeting brightness.

Silence followed – chill and empty.

Then a black shape exploded from the clouds of white.

A huge eighteen-wheeler, the sort that hauled double loads of train cargo, roared up behind the Impala. Brakes screaming it fishtailed around the divider, heavy tires cutting though white to leave black scars for a quarter mile. The bulk came to a shuddering halt inches from the Impala's open trunk.

"Hey guys." A gray haired woman of uncertain middle age leaned out the passenger window. "We saw your signal."

"Hallelujah." Cas was probably NOT being sardonic.

"OK." Sam acknowledged, eyes tracking from the oversized hauler to the eight axels of cargo. "THAT will get though."

"We have a pregnant lady here." – who it doesn't' look like she'll be pregnant very much longer. Any chance you can get her to town?

"We'll do what we can." The lady vanished back inside.

In a few seconds more, a younger man hopped down from the drivers' side. He had the red-eyed look of a driver who'd been fighting the road a few too many miles, but he hustled over to where Singer and Senor Mendoza were standing.

"We don't have a lot of passenger space. The back bunk loft is all packed with loading supplies for the animals." He looked first to Dean, then to Cas, then to Sam, doubt giving way to some enthusiasm as he took in the sturdy strength of the younger men. Turning around, he scouted out the area. "Help me set up a temporary pen and move some of the cargo. She can lay down in the side seat and the rest of use can pile in the back." Stomping down to the rear doors, he called back. "Our ride might not smell to good, but it will be warm."

Dean followed. "What are you guys hauling?"

"Prime merino." He unlatched the rear door, releasing a chorus of 'baaa'. Several heavy white heads thrust out curiously. "These guys have heavy coats – wont' even notice the snow as long as we build them a decent wind break."

Dean figured he was telling the truth. Even without electricity the back of the hauler was blasting out heat like a tropic summer. No wonder sheep liked to be shirred. If he's been one of the sheep Dean figured he'd be lining up for a short haircut – double time.

"I've found a stack of hay bales down here." That was Sam, who had broken off to move into the field. "We can stack them into a wall, maybe use some of the broken fence slats to rig up a roof."

"You and Cas start hauling hay bails," Dean called back. "I'll help drag out the folding fence bits, and this guy and I can put up the coral."

Hooking his shoulder under a hinged section Dean began to walk. Ten of these fence sections – five trips each for him and the sheppard guy – and they could set up a sturdy perimeter to keep the sheep in place. The older woman from the truck fell in behind them. Over her shoulder she carried the tools for hooking the sections together.

Walls of hay bales would stop the wind and leave a clear patch of ground for grazing. With the space blankets draped over fence slats the manger would even have a roof and they could leave out water. Not exactly the Ritz-Carlton, but these were dumb animals here. They wouldn't appreciate a mint on their pillow anyway.

It was a good plan. Once they had that up they could move out the sheep, then Billy and her husband could move Senoria Mendoza to the truck and they could all head for the nearest hospital. In the morning the cops could give Dean and her husband a lift back to their respective car.

Everyone would be fine, and only a little inconvenienced.

*****************

"Oops."

"Bobby?" Dean paused, leaning tiredly into the last fence section. "If you've got a problem with this, it's a little too late."

"It's not me that's too late." Bobby backed out from the Impala. "I don't think this lady is moving anywhere."

Yep. Senora Mendoza had stopped crying and was now panting in a really freaky way. It wasn't like anything Dean had heard before, not even from demons or werewolves, and for some atavistic reason it frightened him more than either of those creatures could.

Bobby nodded down at her twitching belly. "Your field medicine cover this?"

"Not unless the kid comes sliced or gunshot." Dean hoisted the fishing tackle box they used for their medic kit. He had no idea if anything he'd packed for the usual clawing or bites would work here, but it was all he had. "I don't exactly take Lamaze classes, you know."

"What the heck." The woman from the truck elbowed past the two men, looking both calm and confident. She unlatched the kit with her left hand, reaching for Senora Mendoza with her right.

"I've pulled plenty of kids in my day." She reassured the straining woman. "Your little lamb will be just one more."

To Dean she snapped. "Forget the sheep. Move this car into the windbreak."

"That I can do." Dean slid into the drivers' seat, grateful to leave the drama behind him. It was a straight downhill slide. Moving the fence sections had flattened the drifts. Dean was sure the Impala would get him there. How he would get her out again? Well, that was a trickier question. He's worry about it tomorrow.

"Sam." Dean shouted over the revving of the motor. "You open me a gate in that fence. I'm heading though!"

* * *

Fifty minutes later and the lady – Mrs. McGruder, as she had finally introduced herself – was sending the men back to the truck for MRE's and to the now-buried Chevy Chevette for diapers and baby blankets.

"Poor kid." Sam sat back by the narrow slit of a door, doing his best to bock out the cold air. He cracked open the packs of camp food, pulling out the self-hearing soup and coffee packs to warm the narrow shelter. "What a rough beginning she's had."

"You said it." Dean looked down on the red-faced scrap of humanity hugged close to his mother in their straw bed. "Born on Christmas Day. Kid's never going to get any decent birthday presents."

"Some people would call it a historic beginning.' Bobby pulled out his flask. "I mean – you've got your wandering sheppards." He pointed to the pair from the truck.

Timmy – the son – was trying to sneak a nip at the flask behind his mother's eagle eye.

"You've got your wise men." Looking at Dean and Sam Bobby corrected. "Make that two wise men and a wise arse."

"Si senior." The new father smiled at the company appreciatively. "All we need is the angel."

"Oh, I wouldn't worry about that." Dean smiled up at Castiel, who was tenderly folding blankets around mother and child. "I'd guarantee at least one angel's got his eye on this kid."

******************

The END

I warned you, right? Written on the fly – literally – as I abandon my usual computer for a family Christmas. FB and Forgiveness thankfully accepted.


End file.
